


(i've got) no roots

by scrapbullet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demigods, Fluff, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lovecraftian, M/M, Other, disjointed storytelling techniques, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 03:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Weightless. That’s one way to describe John Silver. Imperceptible. A ghost in the wind, a being of indescribable matter that goes hither and thither and never lingers, rootless, never anchoring himself to any one person or place or thing. He is the one that walks through the shadowed doors and up amongst the stars, lured by his ancient ancestors in a language not fit for human ears. When they speak to him his eardrums burst and blood trickles down his neck in sticky rivulets, but he is always inexplicably healed when he returns to his body, hale and whole and brimming with new-found knowledge.(...)Advantages of being descended of a god-like entity, he supposes.





	(i've got) no roots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeeBeastie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Mac! (It's a wee bit early but with how busy things are getting atm, I was a bit concerned that I wouldn't have time to post sooo... tada?) I really hope you like this weird little fic, and carry on being amazing :3
> 
> Many thanks to the people who read it over for me, endured my whining, poking and prodding about it, and ultimately helped. You know who you are, and ilu to bits.

Weightless. That’s one way to describe John Silver. Imperceptible. A ghost in the wind, a being of indescribable matter that goes hither and thither and never lingers, rootless, never anchoring himself to any one person or place or thing. He is the one that walks through the shadowed doors and up amongst the stars, lured by his ancient ancestors in a language not fit for human ears. When they speak to him his eardrums burst and blood trickles down his neck in sticky rivulets, but he is always inexplicably healed when he returns to his body, hale and whole and brimming with new-found knowledge.

At times he is lost for hours, entering a fugue state with eyes gone milky and glassy. His heart slows and his mind opens to It that is named Truth, Aletheia with its spiralling hands and single eye that sees All. Silver is spared Its hellish practice of ensnaring unsuspecting mortals and replacing their spines with wiry protrusions, masterfully moving Its puppets to Its every whim. 

Advantages of being descended of a god-like entity, he supposes.

All of this, of course, is not a problem when he keeps to himself. He is best in the rigging, closest to the vast, unnameable void above, and although he weaves words with ease he keeps the peons at arm’s length; always aware of what they are, and what _he_ is not.

It really is for the best. There’s something about Silver that is both intriguing and repellent, something otherworldly. It makes them uneasy, is what he means, and who wants to break bread with someone side-eyeing you like you’re about to do something peculiar? 

Yes, it’s all fine and dandy until the day James Flint walks onto the scene, with those eyes so green, damnable and deep. 

Silver always knows his brethren when he sees them; their _otherness_ all too apparent. He has always been able to see that which is beyond the veil, those beings that rarely cross the threshold to interact with mortals, and so the inky smudge of a persons eldritch heritage is as clear to Silver as the moon on a cloudless night.

The problem? Flint has no idea what he is. That, in itself, is unusual. Most are aware of their difference - from the presence of incorporeal tentacles and ooze to possessing such abominable abilities that surpasses human ken - but Flint is, despite his well-placed confidence, utterly unaware of the brilliance of his incorporeal form.

Which is a shame, given that Flint is a descendent of Yorith, the oldest dreamer, resplendent in aquamarine crystal, hearkening back to the very ocean his ancestor resides in. Frankly, Flint is a stunning creature to behold; beautiful yet terrifying, all angular glass refracting light, deviously hypnotic.

Flint is alluring. Flint is cunning and shrewd, weaving a web of mesmerising suggestion that draws his crew in and binds them to him. He believes and so they believe. He rages and so they rage. He distrusts Silver and so do they, and yet they are equally as dazzled, desirous, torn between two inexplicable things and not knowing which way to turn. 

Flint’s influence upon them, given his sheer lack of awareness, is astonishing. To describe him as magnetic would be an understatement. 

-

When Silver is forced - by whatever lower tier eldritch being that deigns to screech cryptically in his ear - to ingratiate himself, to move past that barrier of their discomfort to become a _necessity_ … by god, does he.

His ancestor is a master of puppetry after all, and that is all these foolish mortals be.

-

To witness Captain Flint in a violent rage is to glimpse at the monster underneath. A gun is a mere extension of his body, and those he deems dead inevitably fall to the bloodied sand, mouths open in an unfathomable rictus of pain.

It isn’t a man they see before they die; it is a creature great and terrible, calculated and cunning and all too eager to be the cause of their demise.

-

Silver is not the master of his own destiny, but this he can do; talk to a crowd, take a beating, rinse and repeat until he his crew-mates can’t imagine sailing without him.

Fire a cannon. Tell a tall-tale. Smile with brilliant white teeth and convince - _always convince_ \- them to look past his oddities.

Of course it works. He never doubted for a moment it wouldn’t.

( _I never wanted this,_ he thinks in moments of solitude, when the sea is calm and he is lulled by the rumbling snores of the crew. _I’m not strong enough to fight it, fight him. Why did you ask this of me? What reason is there for all of this ludicrous bloodshed?_

Suffice to say it keeps him awake at night.)

-

Hues of pink and orange bloom across the open sky as the sun begins its ascent, but Silver has only eyes for the man seated at the desk, knife in hand. Flint wielding a blade has always been a pretty sight, though now the Captain means to cut the hair on his scalp rather than the throats of his enemies. 

Seated upon his make-shift bed, his one remaining whole leg stretched out under the blankets, Silver watches, and glimpses _beyond_. Red hair flutters down, caught in the salty breeze, and to Silver’s eyes it is as if Flint is gouging great hunks of sea-green glass from his head, weeping a sweet-smelling ichor.

Flint falters, fingers flexing. His stoic, disgruntled silence is more telling than words could possibly be.

Silver grins, and licks sweat from chapped lips. “Oh, I’m sorry… am I distracting you? Please, continue defacing yourself.” 

Grunting, Flint glances back, his eyes a flash of preternatural power. “You’re fine,” he mutters, brusque. “Get some rest.”

The stump throbs. Silver blinks, and for a moment all is void and the stars are blinking out, cowering in the presence of Flint’s brilliance.

 _There,_ and then it’s gone, and Silver shudders a sigh as he pulls the sheet up to his neck; feverish. “-Better ask Howell for a salve for those wounds,” Silver grouses, slumber already beginning to tug at his exhausted mind. “You wouldn’t want them to get infected.” The body demands a healing sleep, one found without the aid of opium, and although Silver fights against its embrace he cannot win.

And so, he isn’t entirely cognizant when a strange expression passes over Flint’s face, or witness him adjusting Silver’s pillow, a modicum of care in every touch, lest Silver wake with a crick in his neck.

-

All happens as it should. That is what Silver _knows_. Even when he bucks against Fate’s cruel sway, when he loses his leg and becomes as ugly on this plane of existence as he is in the Other, they continue to follow this path that Flint has placed them on. Each choice they make changes it in increments, of course, but the finishing line remains the same - lying just out of reach, agonisingly tempting. 

The path, _oh_ , the path is obscured. But the ending? That is all too clear.

(What, you thought they’d make it easy? Gods are notoriously fickle.)

 _You won’t be happy,_ Truth says to him. _There is no end to this where you will be smiling and content, no hearth or home to rest your weary head. You will be unmade, the both of you, and that pain is the sweetest gift you can possibly give to your maker._

Gallingly, Flint has become a partner, a friend. Vexing, to realise that even he has fallen - _unwilling? Perhaps, perhaps not_ \- victim to the Captain’s inescapable allure. It’s tragic, then, for Silver to know that they will be the unmaking of each other - that this war they’ve begun will be the only morsel of peace they will ever have together. 

Truth hurts, doesn’t it? 

Silver rather wishes it didn’t.

-

The air is damp and humid, and the tang of their sweat attracts the most ravenous of insects. Lamplight casts flickering shadows over Flint’s face, and after his tale of sorrow and despair they almost appear to writhe in anguish. His emotions have a tendency to mesmerise - the rage tightening his jaw in one world and cracking the heated glass of its hinge in another - and although Silver perceives himself falling under Flint’s spell there’s no rope for him to reach out and catch himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Silver says, again, because it needs reinforcement. 

Flint rubs his palms together, dirt highlighting each callused crease. “Those words aren’t for you to say,” he replies, and when he catches Silver’s gaze there is a softness there, tempering the hell-fire. “Never apologise, John. Not to me.”

 _You are my partner, my confidante_ , is what Flint doesn’t say, but it’s there nonetheless, in the fondness of his eyes and the faint curl of his mouth. _You lifted me up from the depths of devastation as I drowned, as I mourned, and I tell you this because my heart is open and I trust you._

It’s a bitter-sweet burden to bear, and guilt gnaws at Silver’s insides like a disease, knowing all too well that within a week, a month, or perhaps even two, there will be no love between them. The how, is elusive. It always is.

“I have your trust, then.” It’s more of a statement than a question. 

“Always,” Flint promises, and when he kisses Silver for the first time it feels like benediction. His lips are chapped and warm, and his hands - wide and strong - cup Silver’s face, thumbs stroking back and forth in a soothing mantra.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Silver admits, a confession murmured against Flint’s questing mouth. “You recall how we met, do you not? Or have you lost your memory as well as your wits?”

Flint merely chuckles softly, seemingly unconcerned. “You are as slippery as an eel, my sweet; that is not something I’ll soon forget.” And so he claims Silver’s lips once more, fierce and all-consuming.

-

“I don’t believe in Fate,” Silver says helplessly, as he presses the muzzle of the gun to Flint’s brow. “If I’m to be your end-”

-

(Restless, Flint presses his lips to Silver’s shoulder, sweat beading his brow as he draws Silver all the closer, gaining comfort from the sweet embrace.

“Another nightmare?” Silver asks, voice like roughened gravel. Of course he already knows the answer. This isn’t the first time Flint has awoken in the dark depths of the night, disturbed by what he’s glimpsed in the void.

“I see such horrors in my dreams; such things that I can’t even begin to comprehend.” Anguish permeates every word, hushed, as if to speak any louder would bring demons down upon their heads. “A river of black blood flowing through a torrid red sky and the pitched screams of the damned as terrible beasts feast upon their naked flesh, and you-” 

Silver intertwines their fingers, bringing them up to kiss Flint’s knuckles. “I?”

Swallowing back bile, Flint licks his lips and exhales a shuddering breath. “Nothing. It was nothing. Go back to sleep.”)

-

Blink, and there he'll be; clad in a cape of blood and glass, rootless and weightless, traversing the stars.

_Blink, and you will meet once again; human no longer._


End file.
